


An Echo In Your Stead

by melo



Series: Temptation [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alien Invasion, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Gen, M/M, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:56:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melo/pseuds/melo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean didn't come back and while everyone else might accept that he's dead, Sam won't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Echo In Your Stead

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to _Temptation Was Never Red_
> 
> Archiving from LJ.

Sam never knew that human flesh could be so squishy.  
  
But he knows now, feeling Chuck’s neck slowly lose shape in his hand as he tightens his grip bit by bit – a boa constrictor ensuring its prey is good and dead.  
  
There’s screaming all around him, panicked yells and cries of stop stop  _stop_ , but it sounds far away like someone’s playing an instructional movie on how to operate a table saw in the next room. The only thing Sam can hear is the blood beating in his temples, thudding through his gums and clawing past his lips to roar in Chuck’s face,  _Where is he?_  
  
Then there’s a sharp pain at the back of his head.  
  
His vision swims, blurring Chuck’s face into the mess Sam wants to pound it into.  
  
He can feel the ground slipping out from beneath his feet; hears the voices around him dropping octaves like a sound mixer’s been blown to shit.  
  
But none of the voices he hears are right. They’re too high, too low; not rough enough, not smooth enough.  
  
And as the dark of unconsciousness creeps over him, he wishes he could tell everything to shut the fuck up – they’re not what he wants to hear.  
  
He wants his brother.  
  
But Dean didn’t come back–  
  


***

When he wakes, it’s with what feels like a hangover the size of Alaska – something he only ever gets after the victory parties Dean drags him to – and he turns over in his bed with an annoyed moan, promising himself to kick Dean’s ass later.  
  
But then he remembers there won’t be a later.  
  
And the annoyed moan instantly transforms into a scream he muffles in his mattress.  
  
Dean didn’t come back–  
  


***

This time when he opens his eyes, it’s with a clear head and the full knowledge that his brother isn’t rooming across the hall from him.  
  
Dean didn’t come back–  
  
Sam blinks owlishly up at the ceiling.  
  
Dean didn’t come back–  
  
But repeating it doesn’t make it any easier to accept.  
  
Dean isn’t coming back–  
  
And changing the tense doesn’t make it any more final.  
  
Dean isn’t running back–  
  
Dean isn’t walking back–  
  
Dean isn’t crawling back–  
  
Dean will never be back–  
  
Dean is gone–  
  
Dean is dead–  
  
Dean is as dead as Dad as dead as Mom as dead as dead as dead as–  
  
“Sam?”  
  
He turns his head to squint into the light shining from the doorway. The door’s only been opened a crack and the light isn’t very bright, but he doesn’t reply, even after his dry eyes adjust and he sees that it’s Jess.  
  
She enters the room, bottle of water in one hand and shuts the door softly behind her before approaching the bed.  
  
“Sam,” she repeats, standing over him with a heavy crease in her brow, eyes bloodshot and dark with worry, but still brighter than anything else in the dim room.  
  
He remains silent, but it’s not because he’s angry with her. There’s no anger in Sam right now – though he knows it’ll erupt like a volcano if he sees or thinks about Ang – he just doesn’t know what will happen if he opens his mouth. He doesn’t know if he can form words or if all that’ll come out are animal howls and silence.  
  
But Jess seems to understand – Dean isn’t – wasn’t her brother, but he is – was her friend too. She sets the bottle of water she brought for him on the nightstand and lies down on the sheets next to him. It’s awkward with his broken leg, but she nudges his cast over and draws him into her arms, letting him hide his face against her neck as she combs her fingers through his hair.  
  
Neither of them speak because there’s nothing to say.  
  
Day three.  
  
Dean didn’t come back–  
  


***

There have been murders in the Stronghold before.  
  
They’re extremely rare since people expend most of their energy and aggression outside against the Angels, but they do happen.  
  
Sam thinks it’s possible one might happen in the next five minutes – he certainly demonstrated the potential for it four days ago.  
  
“What do you mean no one was sent to get him?” Sam’s tone is misleadingly calm.  
  
“I –I’m sorry, S –Sam. I really am, b –but I’m just the messenger!” the man squeaks, stumbling back into the wall behind him.  
  
Sam doesn’t even know who the fuck he is, but he’s the one telling Sam that the council _hasn’t sent anyone_  to get Dean when they told him  _they had_  – when they told him that _Dean is dead_. And he doesn’t know how this is possible since Bobby’s on the council and Sam’s sure that the older man would do whatever it takes to save Dean – a good soldier, a good man, a good son.  
  
Dean didn’t come back–  
  
Sam snarls, spinning on his heel, somehow managing to prowl down the halls with a broken leg. It seems the cast doesn’t slow him down like it should; instead it acts as a warning to the rest of the Stronghold residents – each thump a signal to clear the way.  
  
And good thing for that because people are going to pay for this; Sam doesn’t care how logical the argument for not sending out a rescue party is. It doesn’t matter if the Angels are still at the outpost. It doesn’t matter that Dean had been EmerSD; that it took five days for Chuck and Becky to get back and deliver the news; that four days is the longest anyone’s ever survived an EmerSD untreated.  
  
The outpost could be overrun with Angels, and maybe it’s five days past the expiration date and sure, Sam has a broken leg and a strict order to remain at base – he doesn’t give a shit.  
  
He’s going to get his brother.  
  
Dean is coming back.  
  


***

He goes alone, knowing no one would let him go if they knew his intentions. And he knows he should’ve left days ago – should’ve left the second Chuck walked in with those big, apologetic eyes. He shouldn’t have wasted his time throttling the man when it really wasn’t even his fault; shouldn’t have let himself get knocked out and confined to his room.  
  
There’s a tower of regrets building in the back of Sam’s mind – a new brick sliding into place with each step he hobbles through – and he knows that some things were beyond his control, but it doesn’t make him feel better.  
  
Dean could be deaf-blind and he’d still go out to find Sam. He would tell the council to go fuck themselves; would crawl through the ventilation to escape if he had to, Sam knows it’s not an exaggeration.  
  
After all, Dean carried Sam on his back for more than five hundred miles when they were younger; when they’d journeyed in search of a refuge, the Stronghold they’d heard spoken of like it was salvation by wanderers as lost as they’d been.  
  
Maybe Sam’s being irrational, having snuck out of the base without telling anyone – especially Jess – but he’s Dean’s little brother and Dean would’ve done worse.  
  
Dean  _will_  do worse.  
  
Dean’s the most stubborn, impossible bastard Sam knows, and it’ll take more than the universe can throw to knock his big brother down; to stop Sam from saving his brother. And the pitch black of the underground is hardly an obstacle – Sam has night vision.  
  
It would've been easier to bring a flashlight instead of nabbing the goggles from equipment storage, but Sam's already at a disadvantage limping around piles of rubble and twisted metal, he doesn't need light giving away his position to any enemies that might be in the dark with him – Angels or rogues; escapees of Paradise who lost their minds.  
  
The backs of Sam’s eyes prickle at even the vague thought that Dean could be one of those people – if he’s still alive.  
  
At least with the landscape lit in green Sam's able to save time in finding landmarks and now he's already a day's journey from the Stronghold, though he still hasn't found anything.  
  
But he will find something, even if the chances are slim – Dean’s been on the Angel’s hit list ever since he blew up the Kansas City facility. If Dean’s okay he'd need to either be hiding in the outpost – unlikely since the Angels breached the basement – or he'd need to be in the underground – but from Becky's account, Dean sealed himself in the building.  
  
In the building.  
  
With Angels.  
  
Body failing from an emergency shutdown.  
  
Sam wilfully ignores everything that suggests Dean’s death, instead predicting the path his brother would take through the underground if he was returning to the Stronghold and keeping his eyes peeled for the vaguest human shape.  
  
Which is when he notices a faint glow in the partially caved entrance of a branch off the main tunnel.  
  
Sam immediately stops, falling back against the nearest wall for some semblance of cover and hoping he hadn't become careless and let his steps grow too loud while contemplating his search.  
  
He edges down the wall towards the glow, trying not to let his broken leg scrape on the ground and keeping his crutch from knocking into any debris as he peers into the connecting tunnel.  
  
At first, Sam's not sure what he's looking at with the light throwing his night vision into a green haze.  
  
There's a small fire, barely more than a candle flame on a pile of twigs; a shadowy figure seated against the wall.  
  
But on closer inspection, the shadow isn't one, but two figures – one of them is...  
  
Dean.  
  
Sam recognizes the sleepy-hair he gets when he takes a nap during a car ride; the old knife wound that's now a thin scar through his temple where hair doesn't grow; the silly girly lashes and stupid girly mouth on the face of the one who always teases  _Sam_  about being a girl.  
  
It's Dean.  
  
Sam's heart explodes with relief; his throat burns with too much emotion.  
  
It's Dean and...  
  
Dean's limp form is tucked under a long coat. Lean arms enfold him, holding Dean and pressing him back against the chest of a man who sits leaning rigidly against the wall.  
  
But no.  
  
It's not a man.  
  
Sam jerks the night vision goggles from his face at the same time he stumbles into the firelight.  
  
"You!" he half-snarls, half-cries in confusion.  
  
Castiel doesn't flinch at Sam's sudden appearance, though his arms tighten around Dean, causing Dean's head to tip to the side until the crown of his skull comes to rest against the edge of the Angel's jaw.  
  
"Samuel Winchester," the Angel says, voice bland like there's nothing wrong with the situation.  
  
There are  _so many_  things wrong with the situation.  
  
Sam doesn't even know where to begin.  
  
This is the Angel that's been hunting Dean for years – has drugged Dean, stabbed Dean, shoved Dean off a building, left Dean buried alive. And now here he is, practically embracing Dean, albeit stiffly like the Seraph’s just a bit afraid of touching him.  
  
Castiel sits with legs bracketing Dean’s, arms wrapped around his sleeping shape oh so carefully – protectively, yet cautiously. He doesn’t even look at Sam, instead watching Dean warily like he might grow thorns; anxiously like he might shatter or disappear or...  
  
But it doesn't make sense.  
  
Becky said that the Chrism hadn't taken, and Sam can see that Castiel lacks the symptoms of a hooked Angel, so Sam stands there, uncomprehending, staring at the Angel tentatively cradling his brother. But the more he looks, the more he sees, and while at first he only noticed how pale Dean's skin is, how dark the shadows under his eyes are, he sees now that Castiel doesn't look all that great either.  
  
The Angel appears worn in a way Sam's never seen him, and Sam's seen Castiel covered in gore and the dust from a dry wall he punched through.  
  
Now Sam notices the rips in the Seraph’s clothes, the dried blood spotting his face in a macabre imitation of Dean’s freckles. Castiel looks gaunt, strained like he hasn’t slept or eaten in days even though Angels require neither, and there’s the tiniest crease in the Seraph's brow.  
  
Castiel looks impossibly focused, and while he’s always had a special intensity, this is different. It’s like he's listening closely to something – monitoring something.  
  
Dean's heart.  
  
Sam doesn't know where the thought comes from, but he knows instinctively that that's what Castiel's doing.  
  
Monitoring Dean's heart.  
  
Sam's stomach drops away, because of course Dean can't just be taking a nap.  
  
"How long has he been like this?" Sam asks, choked; anger vanishing in smoke; all past grievances forgotten for the moment.  
  
Castiel doesn’t respond for a few minutes and when he does his words are disjointed, absentminded like a busy adult answering a child so the child will shut up, "Four. Days.”  
  
But Sam doesn’t mind. Castiel could be tap dancing and singing about the rain and Sam wouldn’t care as long as it somehow kept Dean alive.  
  
Sam’s hands ball into fists and he blinks rapidly though his eyes are painfully dry, "What you're doing right now, can it... can you fix him?"  
  
Castiel's head rotates just a fraction to the left, the corner of his mouth brushing Dean's hair before turning back.  
  
Sam swallows, pulls his crutch closer so he can stand straighter, "He needs to get treatment."  
  
“Treatment?”  
  
“For the effects of the EmerSD,” Sam says, surprised. And it occurs to him the Seraph doesn’t know about the negative impact an emergency shutdown has on the human body – that this whole time, Castiel must’ve been expecting Dean to waste away, but poured his energy into caring for him anyways.  
  
And it might just be Sam’s imagination, but at the promise of a treatment, Castiel seems to come to life and slump in defeat at the same time – eyes flashing and mouth twisting up from what Sam hadn’t even noticed was a frown and turning into a determined line; a conflicted stretch of lip.  
  
But Castiel’s eyes fly from Dean to Sam, his intent clear, and Sam answers his unspoken question, “At the Stronghold – Dean can be treated at the Stronghold.”  
  
And Sam knows that Angels are strong, but when Castiel suddenly stands – Dean nestled in his arms, head propped against the Seraph’s shoulder and hands folded against his chest – Sam still startles, stumbling back a few steps as if Castiel’s burst of energy is a physical force.  
  
Castiel only glances at Sam; waits for him to lead the way.  
  
It’s stupid, but Sam feels indignant. Maybe it’s just the Angel’s haughty attitude or maybe it’s because he feels like  _he_  should be the one carrying Dean. The feeling is brief though, higher brain function returning to Sam with every second Dean remains in his line of sight.  
  
Of course Castiel has to carry Dean, it’s not like Sam has another set of arms of a spare leg he can change into, and even if he could carry Dean, there’s no arguing the Angel’s superior strength – not when Castiel is holding Dean effortlessly in his arms, unlike the fireman’s carry Sam would’ve used.  
  
But more important than that is the issue of trust.  
  
Sam looks at the way Castiel’s fixed the coat to cover Dean – to keep him warm in the chill of the underground – and has to admit that for whatever reason, Castiel is taking care of his brother and Sam didn’t just find the Angel holding his brother prisoner or something. But it doesn’t match up with any of Sam’s previous encounters with the Angel.  
  
As far as he knew, Castiel didn’t have a caring, nursing side, let alone for Dean.  
  
And it occurs to Sam that in his hurry to save Dean, he just agreed to leading the Angel to the Stronghold.  
  
The Stronghold, a major base for humanity.  
  
Sam feels his gut roil, but when he glances back at Castiel, what his eyes land on is Dean. And he knows that what he’s doing is potentially deadly, definitely foolish, but also absolutely necessary.  
  
And maybe he should be concerned about how easy it is to choose between a compound full of people and his brother, but he doesn’t dwell on it.  
  
He might not trust Castiel, especially not with the way the Angel reacted to the news of a treatment – like it’s the best and worst thing he could hope for – but he has to – for Dean – since it seems Castiel has become his living pacemaker.  
  
So Sam nods, turning stiffly back into the main tunnel to begin retracing the path to the Stronghold.  
  
The going is slow and treacherous, somehow appearing more dangerous to Sam’s eyes now that his mission is truly a rescue effort and not a suicidal revenge-quest thinly disguised as a rescue attempt. It also doesn’t help that he’s virtually crippled and Castiel can’t see his feet while carrying Dean, so instead of using the most efficient route, Sam selects the safest.  
  
Or, he tries to, but everywhere he looks there’re potholes, cliff faces with narrow walkways, crevices shadowed by unstable heaps of broken concrete and metal rods waiting to impale the careless traveler. And they are far from careless, but even with Castiel’s new found energy, they make a weary group.  
  
Sam’s been hobbling around for more than twenty four hours straight, and though he fights to keep going, his body is irritatingly sluggish. It’s the plunge after the adrenaline high, because even if consciously Sam knows Dean is still in danger and he’s keeping questionable company, just being near his big brother has always made Sam feel better, so after passing the same rock for the third time, Sam calls them to a halt.  
  
“I – I need to stop for a bit,” he says, annoyed at himself but knowing that if they don’t, sooner or later Sam will lead them into a field of landmines.  
  
And Castiel doesn’t say anything, but he looks dead on his feet too. Sam’s just glad the Angel’s too uptight to make a snarky remark about Sam’s stamina – but he wouldn’t mind hearing Dean say something...  
  
“You... you said he’s been unconscious for four days, right?” Sam asks tentatively as he sits down on an overturned trashcan; metal cylinder dented but recognizable.  
  
“Yes, but it was only recently that his heart has become... weak,” Castiel looks down at the man in his arms, blinks slowly like the action is a foreign process when Dean’s in his field of vision. Then he leans back against the mostly intact wall next to Sam, slides down to rest on the floor – holding Dean gingerly, but never letting go.  
  
Over the course of their journey, the Seraph’s ability to multitask seems to have grown exponentially and Sam’s not sure if it’s because of practice or energy, but it means Castiel can now talk in full sentences.  
  
Something Sam appreciates as he tries to evaluate Dean’s condition, “So when he was – when he was last awake... How was he?”  
  
Castiel’s eyes drop to Dean’s curled hands, directing Sam’s gaze to the strips of torn cloth wrapping them, edges crusted red-brown.  
  
“He was very confused,” the Angel says, like that’s all he needs to say.  
  
And maybe it is, because that’s Dean’s knife sheathed at Castiel’s hip and Dean’s gun is nowhere to be found.  
  
Sam feels another wave of grief starting up, but he pushes it back, focusing on the fact that Dean’s still miraculously alive so a miraculous recovery isn’t outside the realm of possibility. Just because Dean’s mind was far enough gone that he couldn’t recognize a knife as a knife doesn’t mean anything.  
  
Luckily, before Sam’s thoughts can go into a tail spin, Castiel interrupts, “He called for you.”  
  
Sam’s head snaps up to read the Seraph’s face, but Castiel’s head is tipped down, eyes on Dean.  
  
“He did?”  
  
“Yes, he called for you,” Castiel hesitates, “As well as your mother and father.”  
  
Sam feels like he’s been doused with a bucket of ice water and he’s not sure if he’s glad for the Angel’s ability to speak anymore, “He did, huh.”  
  
Castiel adjusts his hold so Dean folds closer against him, “And then you came for him.”  
  
“Of course,” Sam’s forehead wrinkles, “He’s my brother.”  
  
“And you... look out for each other,” Castiel nods, sounding like he’s quoting someone.  
  
“Uh... yeah,” he says, not sure where the conversation’s going and feeling awkward for talking to the guy that was his enemy yesterday but is his ally today.  
  
Dean’s always introduced weird things into Sam’s life, but this is ridiculous.  
  
Castiel tilts his head, thoughtful, “Humans need technology to communicate long distance.”  
  
And that’s not a question, except the way Castiel turns to look at Sam says it is, so he fumbles for some sort of reply, “Well yeah... Dean didn’t  _really_  call me, I just–”  
  
Sam thinks about the days after Chuck’s last message was sent from the outpost – the nightmares and cold sweats, the inexplicable need to run to the window every five seconds or patrol the front gates. There was no way he could have known what happened but...  
  
He looks at the Angel next to him, sees how keen Castiel is for his answer.  
  
“I heard from Dean’s teammates,” Sam says, and the Seraph seems to deflate.  
  
“But I also had a... feeling,” Sam tries, and he doesn’t know why Castiel’s so interested, but he continues as the Angel’s attention snaps back to him.  
  
“It wasn’t a sixth sense or anything,” he tries to explain, “More like... if you know someone really well – really  _know_  them – you just get a – a  _feel_  for them,” Sam grimaces at his inarticulate description, “You learn their... patterns, I guess, and then you can sorta predict what they might do.”  
  
“And how well would you have to know someone to get this...  _feel_  for them.”  
  
“I dunno, depends.”  
  
Castiel stares at Sam, dissatisfied with his vague answer.  
  
Sam scrunches his face, suspicious, “Why are you so interested anyways?”  
  
Blue eyes drift inevitably back to Dean, “I need to understand.”  
  
And that response is just as vague as Sam’s, but the Angel doesn’t acknowledge Sam’s frown, “Understand what?”  
  
The Seraph seems to turn his attention inwards and after several minutes, Sam still has no reply.  
  
And honestly, Sam has never known anyone to be more cryptic, because the way the conversation had been going, Sam knows that the root of it is the reason why Castiel isn’t partying with the other Angels, dancing over Dean’s dead body.  
  
But just as Sam’s about to ask again, Castiel straightens with a jerk, sliding Dean off his lap in one sharp tug. He speaks urgently, a command, “Hold his head.”  
  
Sam drops to the ground without thinking, crutch clattering to the cracked asphalt unnoticed. He scoots over and lifts Dean’s head to cushion in his lap, not sure what Castiel needs him to do but heeding the brightness of the Angel’s eyes.  
  
He watches without comment, fear mounting as Castiel swiftly removes the trench coat off Dean’s body; slices Dean’s shirt front open with one quick stroke of Dean’s knife.  
  
Then the Angel lays his palms flat on Dean’s chest.  
  
Sam feels his heart stop with Dean’s.  
  
Castiel’s fingers spread out, ten tips pressing into Dean’s flesh like Castiel means for his hand to pass right through.  
  
He pushes down.  
  
A jolt.  
  
It’s nothing Sam can feel, but he sees it in the way Dean’s back arches unnaturally, chest thrusting up and seeming to push back against Castiel’s hands.  
  
And then he drops, returns to the ground unchanged.  
  
But Castiel follows him down, never breaking from Dean, wiry tendons raised on the back of his hands, their skeletal appearance a contradiction to the life they attempt to return to Dean.  
  
Castiel repeats the motion – an organic defibrillator – and Sam grabs at Dean’s limp hand, keeping it from flopping into Castiel’s way as his attention flicks back and forth between his brother and the Angel, trying to piece together the situation through the fog of No No  _No_.  
  
It’s a sight that makes little sense. Sam can’t –  _can’t_  – comprehend losing Dean  _now_ , and it’s a little like looking at an optical illusion, because as Sam understands it, the shocks the Seraph sends into his brother are what’re causing the muscle spasms. Yet with every repeated pulse it looks more and more like Castiel and Dean are attached by strings, and Sam can’t tell if it’s Dean who follows Castiel’s hands up, or Castiel who follows Dean down.  
  
It’s as if one life is being stretched into two and the Seraph’s pupils are inhumanly contracted, pinpricks that are hardly there, leaving eerie blue circles to occupy the whites of his eyes. There’s sweat beading on his brow, dampening the hair at his temples and he hardly seems to be breathing, so intent is he on his task.  
  
And if it weren’t for the regular jerks of his arms, Castiel would be a mirror to Dean.  
  
Dean who is still unresponsive; still limp and pale and boneless between shocks.  
  
Dean who is never motionless; always stealing Sam’s meat rations and sneaking his laundry in with Sam’s.  
  
Dean who whines to Sam that he’s no longer fit for cleaning duty after stubbing his toe; who simply grins after taking hits to the head that would’ve knocked out any other man; who is always so careless with himself but so careful with others.  
  
Dean who took Sam’s hand, gathered him close when they found their mother dead, their father gone; who carried Sam the rest of that terrible journey to the Stronghold with nothing but his two feet and the strength of stubborn promises.  
  
‘ _Everything’s going to be okay, Sammy._ ’  
  
Dean who has always watched out for Sammy; for whom Sam’s supposed to do the same.  
  
But Sam has no power here and despite his great size, he’s never felt smaller.  
  
All he can do is squeeze his eyes shut against the wetness blurring his vision, tighten his hold on his big brother’s hand; he begs, “ _Don’t let him die_.”  
  
And Sam might be talking to himself or to no one and everyone – everything – but it’s Castiel who replies, faint like the words escaped before his thoughts could catch up, “I won’t.”  
  
Sam opens his eyes to see Castiel’s startled face, his palms sliding off Dean’s chest, and Sam wants to scream at him; ask why he’s stopping, but then Castiel shakes his head, grips one hand to Dean’s shoulder. He takes a shuddering breath like he dreamt he ran a marathon, only to wake up and find he’s still at the starting line.  
  
He repeats more firmly, as if to himself, voice low and eyes still that alien blue, “I won’t.”  
  
Then there’s a strike of what might be electricity jumping from Castiel into Dean, jagged snakes of light twisting around the Angel’s hand and burrowing into the round of Dean’s shoulder.  
  
Dean’s body jerks up again and there’s the smell of burnt flesh, but that’s all.  
  
Castiel’s eyes narrow as he sends another bolt of white-blue out, this one more intense than the last.  
  
But there’s still nothing and Sam’s one brick short of a breakdown.  
  
Then Castiel tries again, one last shot at life, light seeming to emanate from the very pores of his hand, seeping out between his grit teeth and cracked eyes.  
  
A high whistle resonates through the tunnels and Sam’s not sure if it’s the ring of silence of something else, but he doesn’t let go of Dean to cover his ears.  
  
And Dean jolts up again, and this time–  
  
Lips part for breath–  
  
Green eyes fly open–  
  
There’s a strangled cry and it could be from any of the three of them – the  _three_  of them – and then Dean returns to the ground, lies prone with head pillowed on Sam’s lap, shoulder clutched in Castiel’s hand.  
  
And his heart beats.  
  
His heart beats.  
  
‘ _Everything’s going to be okay, Sammy._ ’  
  
Sam feels tears running down his face and he can’t wait for when Dean wakes up again – because  _he will_  – so that Dean can tease Sam about being a girl and Sam can call him a jerk and they can fight about whose turn it is to clean the bathroom.  
  
Dean isn’t gone; is still here; is coming back, and Sam could do victory cartwheels, broken leg be damned, but then Castiel collapses sideways against the wall, eyes half-lidded with fatigue.  
  
“Are you,” Sam clears his throat, but he still sounds hoarse with the whiplash of emotion, “Are you alright?”  
  
“I will be,” Castiel sighs, eyes drifting shut.  
  
“You want to lie down?” Sam asks, sure that being slumped against a crumbling wall is far from restful.  
  
“No.”  
  
Sam nods, willing to go along with whatever Castiel wants after this last miracle and instead of fussing over the Angel, he fusses over Dean.  
  
Dean’s shirt is ruined and it’s cold in the underground so trying not to jostle his brother too much, Sam stretches his arm out for the trench coat. It lies just within reach if he uses his index and middle finger to pinch at the corner of tan fabric, and he manages to tug it over; uses it to cover Dean as best as he can from the cold and damp.  
  
But rearranging the coat over Dean brings to mind a lot of questions – questions Sam shouldn’t ask because what more could he want than this – his brother alive alive alive.  
  
And Sam tries not to look the gift horse in the mouth, but with every minute that passes – Castiel’s coat draped over Dean; Castiel’s body resting, yet still somehow attuned to Dean – his need to know grows.  
  
“Why?” Sam asks meekly, a voice in the back of his head urging him to shut up, “Why did you save Dean?”  
  
Castiel opens one eye, seeming to consider the merits of moving his mouth versus ignoring Sam’s puzzled frown.  
  
“He showed me... compassion when no one else would.”  
  
Sam raises his brows, certain he would’ve noticed, “When did he do that?”  
  
“Our first encounter was not at the Kansas City facility,” Castiel’s gaze drops down to Dean’s sleeping shape, looking small and frail beneath the trench coat, “He was blind, yet he gave me water and tended my wounds.”  
  
Sam’s mouth opens in amazement as he recalls the night he had to leave Dean to get help; how he’d arrived to find Dean alone and asleep, hands inexplicably covered in blood when he himself had no open injuries.  
  
“He would’ve killed you if he’d known you were an Angel,” and Sam needs to shoot himself because that is  _not_  what he should be saying to show how much Castiel’s life saving efforts are appreciated.  
  
“No, he wouldn’t have.”  
  
And the assuredness of Castiel’s answer is surprising, but Sam knows it’s true. Dean wouldn’t have the heart to kill someone who couldn’t even put up a fight, and the fact that Castiel knows this is as confounding to Sam as his own inability to keep his mouth shut, “He wouldn’t have helped you if he’d known you were an Angel.”  
  
Castiel looks at him, calls his lie without using a single word.  
  
It seems they both know that Dean would help, because for all Dean’s tough guy act, he cares – cares too much – and he wouldn’t be able to stand by an injured being and do nothing about it.  
  
“He – he didn’t know who you were,” Sam stutters, grasping at straws because there’s no way Castiel can understand Dean like Sam does.  
  
Everything’s changing too quickly – enemies to allies; the one he feared would take his brother’s life, instead returning it – and Sam needs to find a way to paint Castiel the villain; return him to the role of evil assassin.  
  
Sam can’t trust an Angel, not when they’re the cause of so much of his misery, but after this he doesn’t know how he’ll ever look at Castiel the same again.  
  
Even if Castiel still stares at Dean with all the intensity he used when he hunted him, the cold edge is tempered with something that might be fear; something that might be worry and care and–  
  
And somehow Sam isn’t surprised by Castiel’s answer.  
  
“No, he didn’t,” Castiel’s face is resigned, like he wants to escape his words and can’t, “but I’m here now and I know–"   
  
Alien blue, hopeless and torn.  
  
“I know he is Dean.”


End file.
